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Naomi Wentworth 

OR 

“HE LEADETH ME.” 


A Slnfap g>tnrg 


BY 


ANNA MA y. ^ 


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A. M. Smith, Publisher 
2098 SULLIVANT AVE., 
COLUMBUS, OHIO 


LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 


JAN 12 1904 

1 Copyright Entry 

/Vo. ^^1 Z 
CLASS ^c. No. 

1 XS *? k 
' COPY 8 




Copyright, 1903 
BY A. M. SMITH 
ALIi RIGHTS RESERVED 



I 


The little New England village of S — was all 
aglow with the glory of the setting sun. A lonely 
traveler slowly wended his way along the quiet coun- 
try road leading to the village. As he reached the 
summit of a hill and came in sight of the village, he 
stopped a moment to view the scene. 

Spread out before him were green meadows, 
dotted here and there with patches of golden grain 
waiting to be gathered into the harvest. Just ahead 
of him was a bridge, and beneath it ran a sparkling, 
gurgling, mountain streamlet. As it reached the 
meadow it widened, and further down its waters 
turned the wheel of a mill which had done service 
many years. The traveler’s gaze wandered slowly 
over the whole scene, and finally rested on an old stone 
church which stood some distance ahead of him. Old 
and moss grown, almost covered with ivy, it stood by 
the roadside just as it had stood for perhaps a century 
past. Further along was the village, and beyond it 
the green hills rose in majestic splendor. Kissed as 
they were by the rays of the setting sun, they added 
much beauty to the scene. As he neared the church 
he slackened his pace to view the village churchyard. 
The graves were for the most part marked with plain 


6 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


marble slabs. Some, like the church, were old and 
moss-grown, others were new and white. Here and 
there a stately monument lifted its head high above 
its fellows. They, however, spoke not of holier lives 
or nobler deeds, but rather of worldly store. On the 
other side of the church was a cottage which nestled 
closely in its protecting shadow, and which he rightly 
conjectured was the parsonage. A little further on, 
on the opposite side of the road, was another cottage — 
Rose cottage, it was called. The path leading to it was 
lined with roses, and climbing rose vines almost hid 
the broad veranda from view. The air was heavy 
with their perfume, which told plainly that is was 
June-time— the month of roses. 

As the traveler neared this cottage he stopped, 
put his hand to his ear as if to listen, then turned and 
retraced his steps to the church. Looking about him 
to see whether or not he was watched, he entered noise- 
lessly and concealed himself in the shadow of a huge 
pillar which stood near the doorway. At the organ 
was a woman singing; and the words which came to 
him were:— 

‘ ‘ Lord, I would clasp Thy hand in mine. 

Nor ever murmur, nor repine. 

Content, whatever lot I see. 

Since ’tis my God that leadeth me ! 


“HE LEADETH ME.’ 


7 


^ ‘ And when my task on earth is done, 

When, by thy grace, the victory’s won. 

E’en death’s cold wave I will not flee. 

Since God through Jordan leadeth me.” 

A stray sunbeam stealing through a western win- 
dow fell on her, revealing a well poised head set on 
shapely shoulders. Her hair, which was dark brown, 
hung in a massive braid at her back. By this her 
watcher guessed that she was yet young. As she 
arose and started toward him he drew closer into the 
shadow lest he might be discovered. 

“Innocence personified!” was his thought as he 
watched her coming down the aisle. 

She wore a light muslin frock which barely 
reached her ankles ; her hair was brushed loosely back 
from a forehead that was too high to be called beau- 
tiful, and her full round chin showed a positive and 
determined nature, softened somewhat by lips that 
were tender and sensitive. Her large brown eyes 
looked what they were— the windows of an innocent 
soul. In one hand she carried her large sun hat 
which she had converted into a rose basket and filled 
with June’s offering. At the steps she lingered a 
moment to watch the sunset. 

“What a splendid sunset,” she murmured; “if 
only that great, black cloud had not floated there. It 
has, however, not a silver, but a golden lining. George 


8 NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 

says it is just so with our lives; the clouds often ap- 
pear, but back of them all God’s glorious presence is 
ever shining. I wonder why it is some lives are so 
full of sorrow. My life is so happy, I wonder if the 
clouds will ever come. But mamma will be wanting 
me, and I must not linger even to watch the sunset.” 

She tripped lightly down the steps and went in 
the direction of the cottage on the other side of the 
road. 

‘ ‘ She was watching the sunset, ’ ’ mused the stran- 
ger, as he emerged from his hiding place; ‘‘and 
no wonder, for it is a beautiful scene. Some day 
I’ll paint it.” 

A man coming from Rose cottage met the girl 
at the gate. 

“ I ’m so glad you ’ve been here, George ; I ’ve been 
away longer than I intended, and mamma would have 
been lonely,” he- heard her say as the two met. 

“Your mother and I have had a pleasant visit, but 
she is wondering why you do not come. ’ ’ 

“Then I’ll go at once,” she said, and started up 
the rose path. 

The man lifted his hat politely to the stranger as 
he passed and went in the direction of the church. 

How lonely my life is, ’ ’ he murmured, as he reached 
the gate leading to the cottage by the church. Turn- 
ing, he cast a longing glance in the direction of the 


HE LEADETH MEJ 


9 


other cottage and whispered, “ Dare I hope that it 
will ever be otherwise.” 

Let us take a closer look at him as he stands by 
the gate. 

George Raymond was a man of perhaps thirty- 
five ; his hair, which had been brown, was now plenti- 
fully streaked with gray ; there was a slight stoop in 
his shoulders which was due, doubtless, to his habit 
of stooping at his desk. His eyes were gray. His 
was not a handsome face, and yet, withal, he had a 
goodly countenance, a face one instinctively trusts. 
He was, as his father had been before him, the shep- 
herd of the little flock at S , and a good shepherd 

he had proved himself to be. Father, mother, sis- 
ter, — all three lay in the churchyard, and he was left 
alone. 


10 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


II. 

‘‘Is that you, Naomi,’' called Mrs. Wentworth 
through the window, as she heard footsteps on the 
veranda. 

“Yes, mamma. I’ve come at last,” she answered, 
as she entered the room and greeted her mother 
with a kiss. “I stopped at the church to prac- 
tice a hymn we are to sing next Sabbath and that 
made me late getting home. ’ ’ 

“I heard you singing in the church. That hymn 
is a favorite of mine, sing it for me now, please. ’ ’ 

Naomi went to the piano and sang in a clear, 
sweet voice,— 


“He leadeth me! O blessed thought! 

0 words with heavenly comfort fraught! 
Whate’er I do, where’er I be. 

Still ’tis God’s hand that leadeth me. 


“Sometimes ’mid scenes of deepest gloom. 
Sometimes where Eden’s bowers bloom. 
By waters still, o’er troubled sea,— 
Still ’tis his hand that leadeth me! 


“HE LEADETH MEJ 


11 


“Lord, I would clasp thy hand in mine, 

Nor ever murmur nor repine. 

Content, whatever lot I see. 

Since ’tis my God that leadeth me! 

“And when my task on earth is done. 

When, by thy grace, the victory’s won. 

E’en death’s cold wave I will not flee. 

Since God through Jordan leadeth me.” 

“Now come sit by me, Naomi, I want to talk to 
you. ’ ’ 

Naomi took her accustomed place on a low stool 
at her mother’s feet. A glance at the two faces was 
sufficient to tell that they were mother and daughter, 
for they were strangely alike, and yet so different. 
The one was thin and pale, and told of much suffering ; 
the other was fresh with the bloom of youth and 
health. 

Mrs. Wentworth was a widow. Naomi, her only 
child, had but a faint recollection of her father, 
as he died while she was yet in her infancy. The only 
other member of the household was Janet Thomas, 
a faithful and trusted servant who had been with 
them since Naomi first saw the light of day. 

“George was here while you were gone, and we 
were talking of you, Naomi,” said Mrs. Wentworth 
w^hen Naomi had seated herself. 


12 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


‘ ‘ Of me, mamma ! Have I been doing something 
naughty that George has come to tell you about 
and she smiled as she said the words. 

“No, my child, it is not that. George Raymond 
loves you, Naomi, and wants you for his wife.” 

“Loves me— wants me for his wife! Why, mam- 
ma, I never thought of him in that way, and what 
would you do ivithout me?” 

“Ah! my child, it is of that also that I wish to 
speak to you. Sometimes 1 feel that I will not be 
with you much longer.” 

As the meaning of her mother’s words dawned 
upon her great tears welled in Naomi’s eyes. 

“Mamma, tell me you do not mean it! I could 
not live without you!” 

“It grieves me to give you pain, Naomi, but it is 
better that you should know. The parting will be hard, 
but sometimes I grow homesick and long for loved 
ones on the other shore. You just sang, ‘He Leadeth 
Me.’ Let it be your motto through life, Naomi. He 
will not always lead you in pleasant paths; it will 
sometimes be by troubled seas. Trials are sure to 
come, but if you’ll only trust Him He will lead you at 
last by the still waters. Promise me, my child, that 
you’ll try to be content no matter where He leads 
you.” 

“I’ll try, mamma, but it will be so hard if you 
are taken from me ! ’ ’ And she buried her face in her 


‘HE LEADETH ME.” 


13 


mother’s lap and sobbed bitterly. Naomi had grown 
so accustomed to her mother’s pale face, and their com- 
panionship had been so sweet,, that she had not 
thought that it must some day be otherwise. Mrs. 
Wentworth was one of those patient, silent sufferers 
whose very presence is a benediction to those about 
them. Naomi had never heard her utter one word 
of complaint.. 

“Let us go back to the beginning of our con- 
versation,” said Mrs. Wentworth, when Naomi’s 
grief had somewhat spent itself. “I told you George 
Kaymond loved you and w^anted you for his wife. 
Do you think you could love him, Naomi?” 

“ I do love him, I have always loved him, mamma, 
but not in that way. ’ ’ 

“He will take no promise from you till you have 
seen enough of the world to know whether or not you 
would be happy as his wife. I do not urge it upon 
you Naomi ; God forbid that I should do aught to mar 
my daughter’s happiness; but if there is no other, 
remember I would not wish it otherwise. Whether 
or no you are ever George Raymond’s wife, always 
trust him as your friend, for he will be a true friend 
to you, come what will. 

“ It is getting late, so let us say good night. ’ ’ 

Naomi kissed her mother a fond good night and 
went to her room, where she soon sobbed herself to 
sleep. 


14 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


III 

Loud knocking sounded at the parsonage door. 

Who’s there?” called George Raymond from 
his window. It was Janet who answered. 

“Oh! Mr. Raymond, come quick, Mrs Wentworth 
is dying ! ” No need to urge George Raymond to make 
haste. Hastily robing himself he aroused Mrs. Law- 
rence, his housekeeper, and her husband, dispatched 
Mr. Lawrence for the doctor and told Mrs. Lawrence 
to follow him. 

He found Naomi weeping by her mother’s bed- 
side. A glance told him that the end was near. As 
he reached the bedside Mrs. Wentworth opened her 
eyes, and, seeing who it was, said : 

‘ ‘ It has come sooner than I thought, George. ’ ’ 

Naomi, hearing her mother’s voice, looked up. 

“Farewell, my child,” she whispered, and was 
dead. 

“Oh! my mother! speak to me!” cried Naomi, 
when she realized what had occurred. 

After some moments George lifted the prostrate 
form tenderly in his arms and carried her to a seat 
on the veranda. How often in after years did Naomi, 
in memory, live over again that hour. The first gray 
streaks of morn were just beginning to show them- 


HE LEADETH ME.' 


15 


selves in the eastern sky. Rain was gently falling, 
keeping time it seemed to Naomi to her throbbing 
heart. Now and then from the neighboring barn- 
yards came the hoarse cry of some cock proclaiming 
the break of day. But above all was the wail of a 
breaking heart. George Raymond knew that words 
would be useless, so kept silent, and mingled his tears 
with hers. 

Janet’s grief was scarcely less aftecting than was 
Naomi’s. She had loved her mistress well, and had 
repeatedly refused to leave her although often urged 
to do so by John Thornton. He was the good and 
honest miller at the old mill which stood on the banks 
of the stream in the meadow. 

Kind friends came to perform the last sad offices 
for the dead, and when Naomi again saw her mother 
she was lying, silent and peaceful, in the same room 
where the evening before she had told her child the 
parting was not far off. Three days later they laid 
her in the churchyard, and no longer did she grow 
homesick or long for loved ones on the other shore. 

The summer passed slowly away; autumn with 
its garments of gold and crimson had come. Time had 
softened Naomi ’s grief, and she was beginning to take 
up her old life again. Almost every day found her 
somewhere, reading to some dear, old grandmother, 
or, perhaps, singing by the bedside of some weary 
sufferer. She often accompanied George on his pas- 


16 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


toral calls. It was one evening as they were returning 
home that Naomi broached a subject that had long 
lain near her heart. 

It had been one of her fondest dreams that she 
might some day study music under one of the great 
masters. She and her mother had often talked and 
planned about it. 

“You know, George,” she said, “how I love 
music, and how I have longed to know it better. I 
have been wondering lately if I could not get some- 
thing to do in Boston to help pay my way and still 
have time to study under some good teacher. I might 
be a governess. What do you think of it George?” 
“Before we talk further of this, Naomi, I want to 
ask you a question. Let us sit here in the shade 
of this tree while we talk,” he said, leading the way 
to a large elm which stood by the roadside. 

‘ ‘ Did your mother tell you the evening before her 
death of a conversation we had that evening?” A 
slight blush overspread her face as she answered in 
the affirmative. 

‘ ‘ Then you know of my great love for you ; may 
I hope that you will some day return it, Naomi ? ’ ’ 

“I don’t know, George; I will answer you just 
as I did mamma : I do love you, I believe I have always 
loved you, but not in that way. Maybe, sometime, 
when I’m older. I’ll love you in the way you want 
me to.” 


“HE LEADETH ME.” 


17 


“I promised your mother I would not urge you, 
or bind you by any promise until you know whether 
or not you would be happy as my wife. I don’t know 
when I first learned to love you, Naomi; I think it 
was when I was a mere college lad. I remember when 
I first saw you as well as though it were but yesterday. 
I was home to spend the holidays, and mother told me 
]\Irs. AVentworth had a Christmas gift for me. Alother 
and I went over that evening. Mother went to the 
bed and brought forth a great bundle of shawls and 
blankets, and in them was a wee baby. 

“Here’s your Christmas gift, George,” she said, 
as she laid you in my arms. 

‘ ‘ Aly heart went out to you then, Naomi, and now 
you have so grown into my life that I want you for 
my very own. ’ ’ 

“You have been a true friend to me, I never can- 
repay you. Alaybe some day I will be your wife, but 
now my soul longs for music. ’ ’ 

“And your longing shall not be in vain. Toil 
say you w^ould like to go to Boston ; I will see at once 
what we can do about it.” This, he thought, would 
give her a chance to know the world better. He would 
trust to her true, womanly instinct to separate the 
gold from the dross in life. 

“I will not be selfish,” he thought; “perhaps it 
is wrong of me, anyway, to want her for my wife, 
when there is such a disparity in our years. ’ ’ 


18 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


lY. 

When Naomi reached home she found tea waiting, 
and Janet somewhat uneasy over her long absence. 
She longed to tell that good soul of her plans, and of 
the plans she had made for her, but concluded to wait 
till they had assumed more definite shape. When they 
met the next day George told her he was to go to 
Boston on the morrow. 

“It is good of you, George,” she answered, but 
could hardly feel happy when she noted the look of 
pain in his eyes. He was away four days, and long 
ones they were to Naomi. When he returned he found 
her in the churchyard beside her mother’s grave. 
Seating himself on the rustic seat beside her, he told 
her of the arrangements he had made for her. 

“I have a friend in Boston whose sister will give 
you a home, and in return you will teach her little 
girl music. It will not require much of your time, so 
you will have ample time for your own study. I have 
arranged for you to study under Professor Burton. 
Do the arrangements suit you, Naomi ? ’ ’ 

“Nothing could please me better.” 

“I’m glad you are pleased. ’ ’ 

“I must go tell Janet,” she said, and started 
for home. 


HE LEADETH ME.” 


15 # 

“ 0 J anet, come here ! ’ ’ she called, as she entered 
the doorAvay. 

Janet, ever ready to do Naomi’s bidding, was by 
her side in a moment. 

‘ ‘ J anet, I am going to leave you and the old home 
for a while, I—” 

“Leave me ! what do you mean Naomi?” 

“I mean that I am going to Boston to study 
music. Yv^hat will you do when I am gone, Janet?” 

“Well, if you don’t need me any more John and 
I AAull be married,.” Janet blushingly replied. 

“Just what I have planned for you! I verily be- 
lieve you have stayed single all these years just 
because we needed you ; but you must marry now and 
live here at the old home.” 

“Keep everything just as it is, Janet, so when I 
come back it will be home to me still. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ When are you going, Naomi ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ That depends largely on when you are married ; 
of course I want to see you married before I go. ” 

The next few weeks were busy ones for both Janet 
and Naomi, but at the end of the fourth everything 
was in readiness, and two hearts that had long been 
joined in love were joined in holy wedlock. 

Naomi Avent to Boston the day following. 

“I hate to leave you, George,” she said as they 
drove to the station. “You will be lonely Avithout me, 
wont you?” 


20 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


“Yes, I will be lonely; but do not think of that. 
You know how dearly I love you, and how I long to 
have you for my own, but I seek your happiness 
rather than mine, so will not be selfish. Remember 
you are bound to me by no promise. Should another 
cross your pathway with whom you could be happier 
than with me, forget that I ever loved you except as 
a friend. I know you would not choose unwisely. 
But if there is no other, come to me when you will, 
my arms will always be open to receive you.” 

They reached the station none too soon, for the 
train was there already. He watched her little white 
hand wave him farewell from the window of the 
moving train, then turned his horse’s head homeward. 
Life would indeed be lonely for him now that Naomi 
was gone. Never since his college days were over had 
they been separated for more than a few days at a 
time. He had been the sharer of all her childish joys 
and sorrows; often had he kissed away her tears and 
brought sunshine again to her face. And when child- 
hood had passed and great sorrow had come, he had 
tried to comfort her still. 


HE LEADETH ME.” 


21 


V 

A week had passed. Guests thronged the attrac- 
tive home of the Clayton’s, and Naomi Wentworth sat 
at the piano playing. She had begged to be allowed 
to remain quietly in her room, but Mrs. Clayton asked 
her so earnestly to play that she had consented. She 
w'ore a simple mourning gown, and a single white rose 
on her bosom was all that relieved its sombreness. 

Among the late arrivals was a young man who 
was faultlessly attired, and whose general appearance 
was that of a typical society gentleman. 

Arthur Bevington was the son of wealthy and 
doting parents. He was courted and petted by all 
the mammas who had marriageable daughters, and 
the young ladies themselves always wore their sweetest 
smiles for him. He laughed and flirted with all alike, 
but not a serious thought had ever entered his mind. 

He found a seat beside a young lady, but did not 
prove a very congenial companion, as she soon let 
him know. 

“Miss Wentworth seems quite attractive to you, 
Mr. Bevington,” she laughingly said, as she noted his 
continued glance toward Naomi. 

“Miss Wentworth, did you say? I have not had 


22 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


the honor of meeting her. She was singing as I came 
in, and I thought she had a very good voice. 

“She sings and plays beautifully, and seems quite 
young, too.” 

“Wentworth- Wentworth, surely I have seen her 
somewhere. Ah! I believe I have it now; can it be 
possible! Well, I’ll find out, anyway.” 

As soon as opportunity offered he sought his 
hostess and asked to be introduced to Miss Wentworth. 

“Of course you must meet her, Arthur,” she 
replied. “You know she is staying with us now, is 
here studying music.” 

“Indeed! I did not know it. I presume then. I 
shall see her often.” Many eyes followed Arthur 
Bevington as Mrs. Clayton led him toward Naomi. 
He studied her closely as they conversed after Mrs. 
Clayton left them, and smiled complacently when the 
conversation drifted to music— the theme Naomi loved 
so well. 

“I like to hear you sing. Miss Wentworth; you 
sing sacred music, also, do you not?” 

“Yes, I sing sacred music more than any other 
kind, ’ ’ she replied. 

“Then sing for me. You see they have all de- 
serted us; have gone into the grounds to enjoy the 
moonlight, for the evening is a rare one for the time 
of year. Sing, ‘He Leadeth Me,’ it is a favorite of 
mine. ’ ’ 


“HE LEADETH ME/ 


23 


“What a strange request for one like him to 
make, ’ ’ she thought, as he led her to the piano. 

“Thank you; I shall always like that. hymn,” he 
said, when she had finished. 

“To me it is sad,” she replied. 

Come now, let us walk in the moonlight and I ’ll 
tell you why I like it. ’ ’ They walked till they reached 
a seat beneath a clump of lilac bushes in a sequestered 
part of the grounds. It was while seated there that 
she listened to his story : 

“Some months ago I was in the country on a 
sketching tour. One evening as I was passing an old 
church I heard music and went in. A young girl was 
at the organ, and she was singing that hymn. 

‘ ‘ Somehow I have had a strange fancy for it ever 
since. I passed by the church again the next evening 
but no sweet voiced singer was there. You know now 
why I like it ; tell me why you think it sad. ’ ’ 

“My mother died that night.” 

“I was right then in thinking it was you whom I 
saw in the church that evening. But forgive me, Miss 
Wentworth, for recalling to you sad memories.” 

“There is nothing to forgive; although they are 
sad memories yet they are sweet. I love to think of 
my mother.” 

“I am glad we have met, and I hope we will be 
friends. Mrs. Clayton tells me this is your home for 


24 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


the present, so we are likely to meet often, as I come 
here frequently/’ 

“Say, old boy, however did you come across that 
little angel ? ’ ’ asked Arthur Bevington of his host, as 
they were enjoying their cigars after the other guests 
had departed. 

Mr. Clayton smiled faintly at the comparison, 
but his tone was serious as he answered: “She is an 
angel, indeed; but mind, Arthur, none of your con- 
founded flirting with her, do you understand f ’ ’ 

Arthur laughed lightly. 

“Yes, I understand; but you can trust me there, 
Clayton; I’d as soon think of flirting with the Ma- 
donna herself, were she here. ’ ’ 

After a week spent in her new home Naomi found 
it all that could be desired. Her pupil, Beatrice Clay- 
ton, she found to be a vivacious, impulsive, self-willed 
child of ten. She gave her no serious trouble, how- 
ever, as the two seemed mutually drawn to each other 
from the first. 

The winter passed quickly away. Professor 
Burton, Naomi’s teacher, was the leader of the choir 
of one of Boston’s leading churches, and he, recog- 
nizing the rare quality of Naomi’s voice, insisted that 
she should take a place in the choir. 

So absorbed was she in her music that she gave 
little thought to aught else. George and Janet grew 
somewhat jealous as her letters to them were often cut 


HE LEADETH ME.” 


25 


short on account of it. About the only recreation she 
allowed herself was the time spent in Arthur Beving- 
ton ’s company. He came more often than ever to the 
Clayton home, and even went occasionally to the 
church where Naomi sang— a thing he had not often 
done before. His apparent devotion to her caused 
]\rrs. Clayton not a little uneasiness. 

“ I do wonder if Arthur is serious with Naomi ? ’ ’ 
she asked her husband one day. 

“If he trifles with that girl’s affection he may 
consider this house closed to him forever! I warned 
him against it when she first came. ’ ’ 

That Arthur Bevington was in love there was 
little doubt. It was a strange, new experience for him. 
Naomi was so unlike other girls, that he hesitated to 
tell her of his love. He must make sure that he 
was loved in return. 

It was one evening in the blossoming springtime 
as they were gathering lilacs from the bushes under 
whose branches their friendship began, that she list- 
ened to the story of love as it fell from Arthur Bev- 
ington ’s lips. 

“I cannot answer you tonight, Arthur,” she 
said; “but meet me here tomorrow evening and you 
shall have your answer.” 

“Father, lead me,” she prayed, as she knelt that 
night by her bedside. And who will say that he did 
not lead her? 


26 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


When at last her eyelids closed in slumber, it 
was to dream, not of Arthur Bevington, but of honest, 
loving George Raymond. 

Never had a day seemed so long to Arthur as the 
one which followed. The gathering twilight found 
him approaching the lilacs. Naomi was already there, 
her guitar lying idly in her lap, and so lost in thought 
that she did not notice his approach. 

“I have come for my answer, Naomi,’’ he said, 
throwing himself on the grass at her feet: ' 

‘‘Arthur, I — I cannot be your wife.” 

“Do not jest with me, Naomi; surely you cannot 
mean what you say?” 

“I am not jesting; I mean I can never be 
your wife.” 

“Tell me, Naomi, is there another?” 

“Yes.” 

‘ ‘ And that other is ” — 

“George Raymond,” she said, finishing the sen- 
tence for him. 

“Naomi Wentworth, you are a flirt! a heartless 
flirt! Why are your lips ever ready to smile at my 
coming, why do your eyes always bid me welcome? 
You do love me, Naomi, you cannot deny it.” 

“You accuse me wrongly, you do not understand; 
listen and I will explain : 

“I am not bound to George Raymond by any 
promise. He loves me and wants me for his wife ; but 


HE LEADETH ME/ 


27 


owing to the disparity in oiir ages has left me free to 
choose another if I wish. But I promised my dying 
mother that God should be my leader, and he does not 
lead me to share your gay, useless life. Our lives are 
so dilferent, Arthur, we would not he happy together. 
If I have wronged you forgive me, for I meant no 
wrong. ’ ’ 

Never had Arthur Bevington realized his utter 
uselessness as he did at that moment. He knew that 
he was unworthy of her, as he also knew that it would 
be useless to further urge his suit. The anger had all 
died out of his voice when he said : 

‘ ‘ I have but one request to make of you, Naomi ; 
let me hear you sing that hymn once more.” 

She picked up her guitar which had fallen to the 
ground. Her voice trembled a little as she began, but 
ere she had reached the second stanza it rose clear and 
steady, she, seemingly forgetting that anyone was 
near save her God. When she had finished, and her 
hand lay still on the guitar, he stooped and lifted it 
to his lips. 

“Farewell, my only love,” he murmured, and 
was gone. 

As Naomi watched him depart she felt that he 
was taking a part of her life with him, but knew not 
what it was. 


28 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


VI. 

“You’re taking more than is good for you, 
Bevington,” protested one of his companions at the 
club, as Arthur handed his glass to the waiter to be 
refilled for the third or fourth time. 

“Mind your own business, I can take care of 
myself,” he retorted, angrily. After draining the 
glass to the dregs he strode out of the room. 

Two days later found Naomi going back to her 
old home, and the E— , a ship which sailed that day 
for India, carried with it Arthur Bevington. 

“Janet! Janet!” called a voice in the hallway at 
Rose cottage. 

“Bless the child! I’d know her voice among a 
thousand,” exclaimed Janet as she arose from the 
strawberry bed where she was gathering the luscious 
fruit, and hastened into the house to welcome her 
darling home. 

“Did you walk from the station? Why didn’t 
you send us word so we could meet you?” asked Janet, 
when the first greetings were over. 

' ‘ I wanted to surprise you, and besides I enjoyed 
the walk very much. ’ ’ 

“Wont John be surprised though. Only this 


“HE LEADETH ME.’ 


29 


morning he was wishing you were here to help us eat 
strawberries. ’ ’ 

“Well, since he is so anxious for me to have 
some I’ll take some now,” she replied, laughingly. 
Janet went to fetch some cream, and Naomi sat down 
to a feast fit for any queen. When she had finished 
she went to the door leading to the kitchen garden. 

“You have kept my charge faithfully, Janet; 
everything looks as though it were but yesterday that 
I left it.” 

A moment later, Janet, looking through the 
kitchen window, saw her going in the direction of the 
churchyard and knew that she had gone to commune 
with her dead. George Raymond saw her coming and 
longed to go to her at once, but constrained himself a 
little while so that her first moments at her parent’s 
graves might be in solitude. 

“Naomi!” 

She turned at the sound of George’s voice and 
held both her hands to him in greeting. Seeing a look 
in her eyes which gave him hope he asked : 

“Has my little girl come home to make me 
happy ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,” she answered, and was folded to his 
bosom, and received from his lips their betrothal 
kiss. With his strong arms about her Naomi felt that 
she had at last found a shelter from the tempest which 


30 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


had been threatening her, and not for a moment did 
she regret her choice. 

‘ ‘ When shall it be, Naomi ? ” he asked. 

After studying a moment she replied, “I will be 
your Christmas gift, George. ’ ’ 

“Not till December, and this is only May.^’ 

“December and May,” she repeated, musingly. 
The words had struck her strangely. 

“That’s what people will say of our union, 
George; you are December, and I am May.” 

“And do you mind?” he asked, a pained look 
in his eyes. 

‘ ‘ No ; ’ ’ she answered, and he was satisfied. 

While seated there beside her mother’s grave she 
told him the story of her life as it had been since she 
last saw him. She concealed nothing, not even that 
she had been tempted for a little while to choose 
another. 

Naomi’s return to S— made glad many hearts; 
and when they learned that she was to be George 
Raymond’s wife and would not leave them again, 
their joy knew no bounds. Some, it is true, shook 
their heads and said it wasn’t the thing, but they all 
loved George, and had they looked everywhere for him 
a wife they could have found no one but Naomi whom 
they considered good enough for him. 

It was the evening of that first day at home. 


“HE LEADETH ME.” 


31 


Naomi had been singing for George. She left the 
piano and seated herself at his feet. 

‘‘Somehow, George, I cannot help thinking of 
mamma tonight, and of that last evening we spent 
together. She sat just where you are now, and I was 
at her feet. How I long for her tonight, to receive 
her blessing. She would be happy if she knew, for 
although she did not urge me to be your wife, she said 
she would not wish it otherwise. ’ ’ 

A sudden idea siezed her. She sqrang up, and 
taking him by the hand said : 

‘ ‘ Come with me. ’ ’ 

She led him through the hall and out on to the 
kitchen porch where she knew she would find Janet. 
Putting her arms about her she said : 

“Janet, you are all the mother I have now, so we 
have come to receive your blessing on this our be- 
trothal night. ’ ’ 

Janet did not look nearly so surprised as Naomi 
had thought she would when she first learned of her 
engagement. 

“Well ! Well ! I have thought for a long time that 
you two were intended for each other, and I have 
often wondered if you would ever find it out. Were 
I your own mother I could not say, God bless you 
more earnestly.^’ 

George and Naomi dropped naturally into their 
old habits, and life went on for them much as it had 


32 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


in the old days. The months spent in Boston grew 
gradually to seem like a mere dream to Naomi. 

Another summer soon passed away, and the rustle 
of the falling leaves reminded Naomi that Christmas, 
the time she had promised to be George Raymond’s 
bride, would soon be at hand. 

It was a beautiful October morning. A nutting 
party had been planned for the day, and Naomi stood 
at the gate awaiting George, who had promised to be 
on hand early, as they were to go to the village to 
join the crowd there. Instead of George she saw Mr. 
Lawrence coming toward her. A feeling of fear stole 
over her, was it a premonition of coming evil? She 
started toAvard him. 

‘‘Mr. Raymond wishes you to come to him, 
Naomi,” he said, when they met. 

Naomi found George lying on the couch. 

“What is it, George?” she asked kneeling beside 
him and imprinting a kiss upon his brow. 

“I was taken ill last night and find this morning 
that I am unable to go nutting with you. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Go Avith me ! and do you think I am going with- 
out you ? ’ ’ 

“I had rather you Avould; they will be disap- 
pointed if you do not. ’ ’ 

“And I had rather stay. No, George, my place 
is here. There would be no enjoyment for me while 


“HE LEADETH ME.” 


33 


you are lying here. Mr. Lawrence must go and tell 
them we are not coming.’- 

‘‘Let it be as you wish; but if you stay I guess 
I’ll have to put you to work on a sermon for next 
Sababth. ’ ’ 

“Me write a sermon? ha! ha! Well, just wait 
till I find Mr. Lawrence;” and she went in search 
of him to dispatch him to the village. 

“What is the text?” she asked, seating herself 
at the writing desk when she returned. 

“I haven’t chosen it yet; perhaps we had better 
select a short one.” 

“Then I suppose it will be ‘Jesus wept.’ ” 

“Short texts do not always make short sermons. 
A whole volume of sermons might be written on those 
two words. How I love that verse; I think it brings 
our Savior nearer to us than any other verse in the 
Book. How sweet it is to know when sorrows come 
that he looks down and sympathizes with us. A 
dreary world this would be sometimes were it not for 
sympathy, even the sympathy of earthly friends. ’ ’ 

“Yes, I know that is trUe. I believe after mamma 
died that I should always have doubted God’s justice 
had it not been for your counsel and sympathy. It 
seemed cruel of God to take her when she was all I 
had. As I looked at your life, knowing that you had 
passed through the same sorrow and yet trusted in 


34 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


God’s wisdom, it gave me strength to bear it. But 
how about the sermon? I haven’t written a word of 
it yet.” 

‘‘Never mind the sermon now; get a book and 
read to me. ’ ’ 

She selected a book that was none too interesting, 
and when, an hour later, she laid it aside and went to 
him, it was to find him fast asleep as she had hoped. 
She slipped quietly away, and when she came again in 
the evening, found him much better. In a few days 
he was able to go about his work. 

November came and went, and preparations for 
the wedding were begun. Had they consulted their 
own wishes it would have been as simple and quiet as 
possible; but knowing that many would be disap- 
pointed were they not bidden they laid aside their own 
wishes to please others, and arranged for the marriage 
to take place in the church on Christmas morning. 


“HE LEADETH ME.’' 


35 


VII 


It was Christmas eve. George and Naomi were 
busy in the church with the decorations of evergreens. 
When the last touch had been added to their work 
they went to the doorway to obtain a better view of it. 
“Only a few more hours, and you will be mine for- 
ever, ’ ’ he said, as he drew her to his side. ‘ ‘ How often 
have I dreamed of the time that is now so near. For 
years it has been my wish that you might some day 
be my wife; and now what more have I to wish for? 
Was there ever such happiness as mine, I wonder?^’ 

He gasped, put his hand to his side and fell at 
her feet. A piercing cry rang through the church. 
Mr. Lawrence, who was working near, heard it and 
ran to see what it meant. He found George lying on 
the floor, unconscious, with Naomi bending over him. 
Lifting him in his strong arms he carried him to the 
house, while Naomi mechanically followed. Mrs. 
Lawrence applied restoratives while Mr. Lawrence 
hastened for the doctor. 

“It is just as I have feared,^’ said good old doctor 
Lee when he heard what had occurred. “His joy has 
proved too much for him, and I’m afraid we will have 
hard work to bring him through.” 


36 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


After an hour of faithful work they were 
warded by seeing George open his eyes. Naomi had 
looked on through it all in silence; speech seemed to 
have utterly forsaken her. But when she saw his eyes 
open she uttered a glad cry and ran and knelt at his 
side. The doctor stayed with him that night and far 
into the next day. When he had gone George asked 
for Naomi. When she seated herself by the bedside 
he took her hand in his, and said: ‘‘Naomi, my dear 
little girl, you have passed through great sorrow, are 
you strong enough to bear more?” 

‘ ‘ What do you mean ? ’ ’ she asked, a startled look 
upon her face. 

“I mean — I mean that I am going away.” 

“Where are you going, George? Why cannot I 
go with you?” 

“You cannot go with me now, but after a little 
while you can come to me — and your mother.” 

She understood now, but did not speak for some 
moments. When she spoke it was in slow, measured 
tones. 

“George,” she said, “you have always taught me 
that God is just and merciful. What have I done that 
He should do this thing and call it justice? I cannot 
believe that He will take you from me. The doctor does 
not know. Try to live for my sake.V’ 

“I would to God that I might, but I fear the 


“HE LEADETH ME.” 


37 


doctor is right. I know I have given you pain, but it 
is better than that it should come to you suddenly. ’ ’ 

“If you go I want to go, too; that would be 
mercy. ’ ’ 

“Oh, my poor Jittle girl ! yoiir lot is indeed a hard 
one. I could almost echo your wish that you might 
go with me. We cannot understand God’s will; all 
we can do is to trust Him. Try to bear it bravely, 
Naomi, for, believe me, God knows best.” 

He lay back exhausted, and was soon asleep. 
When he awoke Naomi was still by his side. 

‘ ‘ Sing something, Naomi ; sing our old favorite, 
‘HeLeadethMe.’ ” 

“How can I sing ‘content whatever lot I see?’ 
I would not be content with the lot that now seems 
before me.” 

“For my sake,” he whispered. 

For his sake— what would she not do for his sake. 

He smiled his appreciation as she sang the 
familiar words, and clasped the little hand closer 
which he held within his own. It was with a trembling 
voice that she began the last verse : 

“And when my task on earth is done. 

When, by thy grace, the victory’s won. 

E’en death’s cold wave I will not—” 

His hand fell from hers; his lips moved; she 
stooped to catch the whispered word, 

“Farewell!” 


38 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


‘ ‘ George ! ’ ’ she cried, but he did not answer. 

Alone! 0 God, be merciful, and take me too!^^ 
she moaned, as she knelt in tearless anguish beside 
the lifeless form. Mrs. Lawrence, coming to the door 
some moments later saw at a glance that George Ray- 
mond was dead. Going to the prostrate girl she knelt 
beside her, but started back in horror. ‘‘They are 
both dead ! ” she cried as she ran for help. Going into 
the hall she ran against Doctor Lee who had just 
entered. 

“Her heart still beats,” said the doctor, as he 
examined Naomi; “but she must not open her eyes 
on this scene.” 

He carried her to another room. Janet was sent 
for, and it was her scream as she entered the doorway 
and saw Naomi apparently lifeless that brought her 
back to life, but not to consciousness. 

The news of George Raymond ’s death spread 
rapidly. A few who had not heard of his illness or 
death came to the church for the wedding, and sorrow- 
ful indeed were their hearts as they turned their steps 
homeward. When they learned of his death and 
Naomi ’s condition, their grief was pitiful to see. They 
laid all that was mortal of George Raymond to rest in 
the old churchyard, and Naomi tossed her weary head 
on the pillow unconscious of it all. 

Weary weeks followed; sometimes it seemed that 


HE LEADETH ME/ 


39 


death would surely claim her for his own. Janet was 
her faithful nurse through it all. 

‘‘There must surely be a change today/’ the 
doctor said one day late in February. “Watch her 
closely, and if I am needed send for me at once. ’ ’ 

Janet kept a faithful vigil at the bedside all day 
long. The restless sufferer tossed wearily but in the 
evening sank into a quiet sleep. 

“Janet.” 

At the sound of Naomi’s voice Janet was by the 
bedside, and saw by her look that reason had returned. 

“What is it, Naomi?” she asked, bending over 

her. 

“Where am I? What has happened? Have I 
been ill?” she asked, looking at the pale, thin hand 
which lay before her. 

“Yes, Naomi, you have been ill.” 

“Where is George? I want to see him.” 

Janet was bewildered. How should she answer 

her? 

“It is night now; cannot you go to sleep again? 
You must not talk tonight.” 

Naomi soon slept, and Janet pondered how she 
should answer her when she awakened. She decided 
to consult Doctor Lee. 

‘ ‘ She must not be kept in suspense. We must tell 
her all and trust to a merciful God for results,” was 
Doctor Lee ’s advice. 


40 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


“Janet, I have had such a dreadful dream: I 
dreamed it was George who was sick and that I was 
singing at his bedside. And — 0! it was awful! I 
thought he died. Where is he now ? Tell him to come 
to me.” 

The tears started in Janet’s eyes. “Naomi your 
dream was not a mere dream. George cannot come 
to you.” 

“Cannot come? Then you mean he is dead! 
George dead! Yes, I remember it all now. But I 
thought I was dying too, and I am still alive. Janet, 
it was cruel of you to nurse me back to life when I 
have nothing to live for. ’ ’ 

The words cut deep into Janet’s sensitive soul, 
but they were forgiven as soon as uttered. Naomi did 
not weep, but from that day scarcely a word passed 
her lips. Strength came to her slowly. Friends came 
and tried many ways to interest her again in life, but 
all alike failed to arouse her from the lethargy into 
which she had fallen. She answered their question^ 
in monosyllables, and listened without comment to 
their conversation. 

Thus it went on; and the doctor shook his head 
sadly, and said : 

‘ ‘ I fear for her mind. It might have been better 
had she died.” 


“HE LEADETH MEJ 


41 


VIII 


It was a bright, warm day in May. Naomi was 
alone, seated in an easy chair on the front veranda. 
She was to go home the next lay. Janet was busy 
preparing the long neglected home for her coming. 

Finding herself alone, she procured a parasol 
which some one had left near, and, using it to lean 
upon, slowly she made her way toward the churchyard. 
No gravestone yet marked the resting place of George 
Raymond, but no need of that to tell Naomi which 
grave was his. 

‘ ‘ Why did I not die ! ’ ’ she exclaimed, as she stood 
beside the grave over which the grass was already 
growing. Turning, she caught a glimpse of her 
mother’s grave. 

‘ ‘ 0 ! my mother ! Why were you taken from me 
when I need you so ! ” she cried, as she started toward 
it. Suddenly, like a voice from heaven the words of 
her mother came to her : 

‘‘He will not always lead you in pleasant paths; 
it will some times be by the troubled seas. Trials are 
sure to come, but if you’ll only trust Him He’ll lead 
you at last by the still waters.” “Trust Him— trust 
Him”— she repeated. Her knees trembled, and she 


42 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


would have fallen had it not been for the friendly 
support of her mother’s gravestone. 

‘ ‘ Father, forgive me ! ’ ’ she cried, aS" she knelt be- 
side the loved spot; and the tears which had so long 
refused to flow came to her relief. When she arose it 
was to catch a glimpse of her home across the road. 
She smiled. “I believe I can do it,” she said, as she 
turned to retrace her steps to the house. 

“How are you getting along? Do you want to 
come in now?” It was Mrs. Lawrence’s cheery voice 
as she came to the door to take a look at Naomi. 

“I’m feeling better, so much better in fact, that 
I believe I’ll take tea with Janet this evening and 
not wait till tomorrow. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ It would be a pleasant surprise for her. If you 
wish it Mr. Lawrence will take you over in the car- 
riage. ’ ’ 

“I think I can walk if you’ll only help me a 
little. ’ ’ 

It was a pitiful sight to see Naomi, once so blithe 
and supple, leaning on another for support. She was 
more cheerful, however, than she had been since she 
awoke from her long unconsciousness, and when Mrs. 
Lawrence saw traces of tears in her eyes, she knew that 
the burdened heart felt lighter. They walked slowly, 
and when they reached the door Mrs. Lawrence left 
her to go in alone. She went through to the kitchen 
door. J anet was busy and did not notice her. 


“HE LEADETH ME.’ 


43 


“Have you no welcome for me, Janet 
Janet started at the sound of Naomi’s voice. 
“Welcome, Naomi? A thousand welcomes!” she 
said, as she clasped her in her arms. 

She took her in the cozy parlor and left her rest- 
ing on the couch while she went back to her work in 
the kitchen. Some moments later, hearing the piano, 
she went to the door. A low, sweet voice was softly 
singing : 


‘ ‘ Lord, I would clasp thy hand in mine. 

Nor ever murmur nor repine. 

Content, whatever lot I see. 

Since ’tis my God that leadeth me.” 

“She has at last found that peace which passeth 
understanding,” said Janet, as she brushed the tears 
from her eyes with the corner of her apron, and went 
back to her work of preparing some of Naomi’s fav- 
orite dishes for the evening meal. 

‘ ‘ How good it is to see her smile once more. She 
seems quite cheerful ; I wonder what has changed her 
so. Poor girl ! she has seen a lot of trouble for one so 
young. But I suppose, somehow, it must be for the 
best. God’s ways are sometimes hard to understand 
though. Why couldn’t it have been poor, old Mrs. 
Gibson, who has been longing for heaven for years, 
instead of George Raymond.” 


44 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


Thus she mused till John came. 

‘ ‘ Have we company ? ’ ’ he asked, as he noted with 
what particular pains she had laid the table, and also 
that plates were laid for three instead of two. 

“Naomi has come home,” she answered, her face 
beaming with smiles. 

From that day Naomi rapidly grew stronger. The 
new pastor came and took up the work so suddenly in- 
terrupted by George Raymond’s death. He found in 
Naomi a great helper. Ere the close of the summer 
Naomi seemed her old self once more, except for a 
certain look of sadness which never for a moment left 
her face. It had in it though sweet resignation. The 
rebellious feeling which had kept her bound so long 
departed that day at her mother’s grave, and sub- 
mission had taken its place. 


“HE LEADETH ME.” 


45 


IX 

“Janet, I have been thinking it all over, and I 
believe I will go back to Boston. I know my old music 
teacher will help me in procuring some pupils, and 
possibly after a while, when my income will permit, I 
can study under him again. ’ ’ 

“But why must you leave us, Naomi? We will 
miss you so if you go away again. ’ ’ 

“I must go because I am young, with possibly a 
long life before me. I am a poor girl, Janet, and 
must make my own living. ’ ’ 

“But this home is yours, Naomi; and as long as 
we have a crust we will share it gladly with you. ^ ’ 

“Yes, this home is mine— dear old home, how I 
love it ! I know you would share your last crust with 
me, but I am young and strong, and must not eat the 
bread of idleness any longer. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Of course I would not hinder your going, but I 
do hate to see you go. We will all miss you so. ” 

“Not more than I will miss all of you. But I 
will come back often to see you. Janet, I have never 
asked your forgiveness for those wicked words I said 
to you last spring. You know I told you it was cruel 
of you to nurse me back to life when I had nothing to 
live for.’^ 


46 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


“They were forgiven long ago; let us forget 
them.” 

“It was hard at first; and for a long time I 
questioned God’s mercy in letting me live, but that is 
all over now. He has spared my life, I know not what 
for, but I am going to trust Him and do the best 
I can.” 

Janet offered no further objection, but it was 
with a sad heart that she went about making prepara- 
tions for Naomi’s departure. It was on a crisp, . 
October morning that Naomi climbed into the great/ 
wagon beside her loved piano and once again started 
for Boston. 

No sooner had she arrived than she set about to j 
find a home for herself. The Claytons were gone, so 
she had to look to strangers for a home. The place she 
selected was a modest lodging house, in not a very 
aristocratic part of the -city, but nevertheless quite 
a respectable looking place. The landlady, Mrs. Hart- 
well, had an air of refinement about her which spoke 
of a different life from the one which she now lived. 
There were two bright, promising boys, aged fourteen 
and twelve. Of Mr. Hartwell Naomi saw little; and 
she also noticed that little was said of him in the 
conversations she had with the family. 

Naomi’s rooms were plainly but neatly furnished, 
and when the piano had been placed in position, and 
some bits of fancy work which Naomi had brought 


HE LEADETH ME.’ 


47 


from home had been added here and there, they pre- 
sented quite a homelike appearance. When everything 
was arranged to suit her fancy she went in search of 
her former teacher to solicit his aid in procuring 
pupils. Many would have done this first, but not so 
with Naomi. She had started out to succeed. 

Her old teacher welcomed her cordially, and as- 
sured her of his assistance. 

‘‘You will resume your lessons again. Miss Went- 
worth, will you not ? ” he asked. 

‘ ‘ Not now ; but maybe, sometime. ’ ’ 

“Anyway you will take your old place in the 
choir, ’ ^ he insisted ; and she promised she would. 


48 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


X 


The days^ work was ended, and Naomi was spend- 
ing the quiet evening at the piano when a low knock 
sounded at her door. She opened it to find Ormonde, 
the eldest son of JMrs. Hartwell. 

‘ ‘ May I come in, please ? I like to hear you sing. ^ ^ 

‘ ‘ Do you like music ? ’ ’ she asked, her face bright- 
ening with a happy thought. 

‘‘Indeed, I do.” 

“Would you like to come each evening and let 
me teach you ? ’ ’ 

His eyes opened wide. 

“Wouldn’t I though! That would be jolly.” 

“All right; suppose you go ask your mother what 
she thinks of it. ” 

With a bound he was through the door and was 
soon at his mother’s side. A few moments later she 
came to Naomi’s room. 

“Ormonde has been telling me about your offer. 
You know we are poor and cannot afford to pay 
much. ’ ’ 

“I do not want pay; it will be a great pleasure 
to me if he enjoys it.” 


1 


“HE LEADETH ME/» 


49 


“It is good of you. It will be such a pleasure to 
me if my child can learn music. I used to be a good 
musician myself, but that was a long time ago,’’ she 
said, as tears gathered in her eyes. “0! Miss Went- 
worth! sometimes it seems that my heart will surely 
break. My life was not always as it is now. You no 
doubt have seen that our home is not a happy one. I 
was once the indulged and petted child of fond par- 
ents; but when I married against their will all was 
changed. They would take me back even now if I 
would leave my husband, but I cannot give him up. 
He is good when he is himself, but he loves the cup 
and the game, and everything he earns goes to them. 
I fear every day to hear that he has lost his place at 
the bank, but maybe it would be a good thing if he 
did. But what must you think of me for telling you 
all this ? My heart was so full that it just seemed that 
I must tell someone.” 

“Your lot is indeed a sad one,” Naomi said, as 
she placed her arm tenderly about the quivering form 
of Mrs. Hartwell. 

“Let us take it to God in prayer, and leave it all 
with Him.” 

Together they knelt, and Naomi lifted her voice 
in prayer : 

“Father, I know in whom I have put my trust. 
Thou knowest for what we would pray tonight. 0, 
God, grant that joy may soon come to this household 


50 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


over which the clouds now hang so darkly. We ask it 
for Jesus’ sake, Amen.” 

“Mrs. Hartwell, I want you to play and sing 
some of the songs you used to long ago, ’ ’ Naomi said, 
when they arose from their knees. 

“Me play and sing? Why I haven’t tried it for 
years,” and she smiled at the very thought. 

“Try it now, wont you, please?” Mrs. Hartwell 
went to the piano and for some moments her fingers 
moved hesitatingly over the keys. A familiar chord 
was struck, her fingers no longer hesitated, and her 
voice broke forth, not as clear, perhaps, as it once was, 
but yet with melody in it. 

“That was Jack’s favorite,” she said, as she arose 
from the piano. 

“It must be getting late; Jack will be here pre- 
sently, so I must go now. I will not forget this even- 
ing; I will still hope and pray,” she said, a smile 
brightening her face as she said good night. 


“HE LEADETH ME.’ 


51 


XI 


It was nine o’clock the next evening. The boys 
had just retired when Mrs. Hartwell heard familiar 
footsteps in the hallway. The door opened and her 
husband entered. 

‘‘Mary,” he said, going to where she sat and 
kneeling at her feet, “I have come to ask your for- 
giveness for all my wrongdoings of the past; hence- 
forth I am going to be a man. ’ ’ 

“0, Jack! is it true?” 

“Yes; I heard that prayer last night, Mary, and 
I am going to help God answer it. When you sang 
that song— that old favorite of mine— how I longed 
to rush in and take you in my arms, just as I used 
to do. I’ll tell you, Mary, I never saw myself so 
plainly as I did last night when I stood at that door 
listening. What a brute I have been. Can you ever 
forgive me, Mary?” 

“Forgive? 0, Jack! how can you ask that when 
my happiness is so great ? ’ ’ 

“You have been a good, true wife to me, Mary, 
and, God helping me. I’ll be better to you hereafter,” 
he said, as he folded her to his bosom. 

“And it all came about through Miss Wentworth; 
how can I ever thank her ? ’ ’ 


52 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


‘‘She would say the praise belongs to God; and 
it does, Jack, yes, it does.” 

‘ ‘ Then let us give it to him. I have never been a 
praying man, as you know, Mary, but I have been 
trying to pray today, and if you’ll kneel here by my 
side we will thank God together for this. 

“0, God,” he prayed, “we thank Thee for what 
Thou hast done for us this day. Only give me strength 
to hold out, and Thy name shall have the praise for- 
ever and ever. Amen.” 

Jack did hold out, and a short, happy year soon 
passed away. 

“I have such good news for you, Naomi!” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Hartwell one morning as she met Naomi 
in the hall. “Jack has bought a home for us. He 
took me to see it this morning.” 

“That is indeed good news. But”— and her face 
clouded a little— “must I leave you when you go to 
your new home?” 

“You leave us! Haven’t you learned yet that 
you are one of us ? I want you to go with me tomor- 
row to select your rooms. ’ ’ 

Naomi was as eager as a schoolgirl for the time to 
come when she was to go with Mrs. Hartwell to their 
new home, and chatted gaily during the long drive 
they had before reaching it. 

“Why this is where the Claytons used to live!” 


‘HE LEADETH ME.' 


53 


she exclaimed, as she gazed at the house before which 
they alighted. 

“ Yes ; Jack bought it of his agent. Did you know 
them ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I lived with them when I was in Boston before. ^ ’ 

Naomi was not long in selecting her rooms. For 
her bedroom she chose the one that she had before; 
and for her music room what had formerly been the 
nursery. 

“Only three years since I left this house, but 
what changes that short time has wrought,” she 
mused, as she wandered through the once familiar 
rooms. 

They moved one week later, and the first night, 
long after the others had sought their beds, Naomi sat 
at her window looking out into the night. A spirit of 
restlessness was upon her, sleep was far away. She 
arose from the window and paced nervously to and 
fro. Picking up a shawl which lay near, she threw it 
lightly over her shoulders and went noiselessly down 
the stairway and out into the grounds, not stopping 
till she reached the lilac bushes. They were again in 
full bloom, and the same rustic seat which was there 
when she left was there still. Seated in that familiar 
spot, was it any wonder that the past came so vividly 
before her ? 

Arthur Bevington was again at her feet. How 
plainly could she hear the words, “You do love me. 


54 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


Nadmi, you cannot deny it!” She could almost feel 
his warm kiss upon her hand, and the gentle breeze 
seemed to whisper the words, “Farewell, my only 
love. ’ ’ 

Why had she felt as she did when she saw him 
leaving her ? For a moment her heart almost stopped 
beating. 

Ah! Naomi, have you learned at last that your 
woman’s love was given to Arthur Bevington, and 
that it was only the love of friend for friend which 
you felt for George Raymond? 

Yes, she realized it now. 

“But would I do differently could I live it over 
again?” she asked herself. As the face of George 
Raymond rose before her she cried, “No, George, I’m 
glad I did not know ! I would suffer all my life rather 
than deny you the happiness of your last few months 
on earth. As for Arthur he is young and no doubt 
has forgotten all about it long ere this. ” Looking 
up into the heavens she whispered, 

“Content, whatever lot I see, 

Since ’tis my God that leadeth me. ’ ’ 

A peace and quietness came over her. She went 
back to her room and was soon asleep. Perhaps it 
was with a heavier heart that she took up life’s duties 
next morning, but her smile was none the less cheer- 
ful, and the world guessed not the secret which lay 
hidden in the inmost recesses of her soul. 


‘^HE LEADETH ME/ 


55 


XII 

Five more years passed away. G— church was 
filled to overfiowing. A returned missionary was to 
speak that night. The great organ pealed forth and 
Naomi’s voice began that familiar hymn, “He Lead- 
eth ]\Ie.” Those watching the missionary at that 
moment saw him start and turn pale. He soon re- 
gained his composure, however, and listened attent- 
ively throughout the remainder of the singing. Naomi 
sang as she had never sung before. Those who heard 
her week after week marveled at the wonderful pathos 
in her voice. She seemed lost to all that was earthly, 
and as she sang the words, 

“Lord, I would clasp Thy hand in mine, 

Nor ever murmur nor repine. 

Content, whatever lot I see. 

Since ’tis my God that leadeth me,” 

it was as though she were face to face with her God. 

As the last note died away the missionary arose 
and said: 

“Dear friends, before I speak to you of India I 
must say a word about the hymn we have just heard 
sung. Those of you who knew me before. I went away 


56 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


know what I was. I need not dwell on that. Just 
before I went away one of God’s good angels with 
which he sometimes blesses the earth, sang that hymn 
to me; and from that time on, go where I would, do 
what I would, I could not get rid of the words. I 
knew that God had led the singer, and at last, in des- 
peration, I fell on my knees and asked God to lead me 
too. From that day to this He has been leading me. 
I did not need to ask God what he would have me to 
do. I had but to look around me to see the great work 
there was to be done in India. I went to work; but 
friends, if I have been the means of doing any good 
in India, remember it is all because one woman 
followed where God led her.” 

He spoke at length on India and her great need, 
and many hearts and purses which had hitherto been 
closed to missions were opened wide that night. When 
the meeting was over friends crowded about him, and 
Naomi slipped quietly away. 

The next day when Arthur Bevington called at 
the bank to see Jack Hartwell and received a cordial 
invitation to dine with them that evening, he accepted, 
little thinking what was in store for him. 

“Finding things so different with you is a sur- 
prise I had not anticipated. Jack,” said Arthur, as 
they were discussing old times after his arrival in the 
evening. 


“HE LEADETH ME.” 


57 


“Do you remember our parting words? I have 
often regretted them.” 

“Yes, I remember I said something to you about 
drinking so much, and you told me to mind my own 
business, that you could take care of yourself or some- 
thing of the sort.” 

“But things are different with both of us now. 
Tell me how it all came about?” 

“Well, it all came about through one of God’s 
good angels wnth which he sometimes blesses the earth, 
as you said last night. You can understand it better 
when you have seen her. Go and fetch her, wife ; she 
must sing for us before dinner.” 

Mrs. Hartwell left the room and soon returned 
with Naomi.. 

“Miss Wentworth, this is an old friend of mine, 
Mr. Bevington,” Mr. Hartwell said by way of in- 
troduction. Their eyes met. ‘ ‘ I have met your friend 
before. Welcome home, Mr. Bevington,” she added, 
as she gave him her hand in greeting. 

“I’m sorry, but I have a business engagement 
down town which I must keep, but I will not be gone 
long, ’ ’ Mr. Hartwell said when dinner was over. 

“You might show him the grounds by moonlight, 
Naomi, while I am away.” 

They followed him to the gate, and, turning from 
it instinctively they went toward the lilac bushes. 


58 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


Neither spoke till they reached them. It was 
Arthur who broke the silence. 

“Naomi — Miss Wentworth, tell me why it is that 
you are still Miss Wentworth, and not Mrs. Ray- 
mond ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ God willed it so, ’ ’ was all she said. 

‘ ‘ Then God has willed that you shall be my wife ! 
Do not turn me away from you again, Naomi, for I 
love you still, just as I have always loved you since I 
first saw you in the old church. Answer me, Naomi, 
what is to be my fate?” 

‘ ‘ I love you, Arthur, and I will be your wife. ’ ^ 

The wedding day was set for June. Naomi went 
to spend the intervening weeks at the old home with 
Janet, and much of Arthur’s time was spent there 
also. 

“Would you like this to always be your home?” 
he asked her one evening as they were seated on the 
rose-covered veranda. 

“Yes, I would like it; I will not deny that. Were 
I choosing my own lot it would be to spend the rest of 
my life here at my old home among my friends. But 
if God calls me to India do not think that I am un- 
willing to go.” 

“It seems that he is calling us here just now. 
Brother Ford, as you know, is going away this fall 
in the hope of finding improved health in a milder 
climate. They have asked me to take his place. I 


‘^HE LEADETH ME.’ 


59 


verily believe it is because they hate to give you up, 
and they think the only way to keep you is to take 
me too.’’ 

“They do love me; I never realized it before as 
I have in these last few weeks. But wait till they 
l^now you and we’ll see whether they want you for 
my sake or not.” 

When Arthur asked Naomi where she wanted to 
go for a wedding trip, she replied : 

“I know it is asking a great deal, but I should 
like so much to go to Italy.” 

“You seem to forget, Naomi, that I am not a 
poor man. If you wish it we will go to Italy. We 
have the whole summer before us as Mr. Ford does 
not leave until Autumn. ’ ’ 

They were married in the church in the presence 
of but a few of their friends, and the next day started 
on their trip abroad. 


60 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


XIII 

“Well, well, this is indeed luck!’^ exclaimed a 
voice as Arthur felt a hand laid on his shoulder. 
“And here is our little Naomi. You need not tell me 
your story, your happy faces tell me that,” he said, 
as Arthur attempted to speak. It vras Mr. Clayton. 
“You must come right home with me; wont it be a 
surprise to wife and Beatrice though.” 

Arthur and Naomi had reached Florence, Italy, 
in their travels, when they met Mr. Clayton. 

“I’m so glad you have come just at this time,” 
Beatrice said to Naomi, when the first warm greetings 
were over. “I’m going to be married next week to 
Sir Francis Clarendon. He will be here this evening. ’ ’ 

Evening came, and with it Sir Francis. As he 
and Arthur came face to face a look of recognition 
passed between them. 

‘ ‘ Thief ! Murderer ! So you have come to rob this 
home of its treasure, have you, as you once robbed 
me of mine!” exclaimed Arthur. 

“Man! what do you mean?” It was Beatrice 
who spoke. 

“I mean that some years ago when I was in India 
I knew this man as Frank Claren. I trusted him as 
a friend and was rewarded by being robbed and left 


“HE LEADETH ME/ 


61 


for dead, as he thought, by his hand. Not only 
did he rob me of my money but also of a painting 
which I prized highly.” Naomi shuddered as she 
heard the story for the first time from her husband ^s 
lips. 

“Prove your words! Defend yourself, Francis; 
tell him he lies ! ’ ’ exclaimed Beatrice. He was silent. 

“You do not speak— 2/ott are guilty! Take your 
ring, leave me, and never let me look upon your face 
again ! ’ ’ she cried, as she threw a sparkling gem at his 
feet. He stooped to pick it up. 

“But stop! you shall not have it but to place it 
upon the hand of another of your victims. I shall 
wear it to remind me — well, to remind me that ‘all is 
not gold that glitters. ’ If ever again I am tempted to 
believe in man, one look at that ring will rid me of the 
delusion. I vow this night never again to love ! Hear 
me all of you, and hear me God ! ’ ^ 

She stooped to get the ring and placed it again on 
her finger as though to seal her vow. 

‘ ‘ If ever again with your cursed allurements you 
beguile an innocent girl into loving you, may the 
Lord deal with you as you deserve. 

“Go!” she cried, pointing to the door. 

He went ; and little did either dream under what 
circumstances they were destined to meet again. 

“You spoke of a painting; come with me,” 


62 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


Beatrice said, turning to Arthur and Naomi after he 
had gone. She led the way to her room upstairs. 

‘ ‘ Is this it r ’ she asked, producing a painting from 
among some other presents which had been sent her. 
“Yes;’’ answered Arthur, as he eagerly gazed once 
more upon the picture of Naomi as she stood upon the 
old church steps just as he had seen her that first 
evening so long ago. 

‘ ‘ I painted it from memory, Naomi. I have tried 
time and again to reproduce it since it was taken, but 
all efforts have failed.” 

“Your memory served you well. How well I 
remember that night. As I stood there watching that 
great, black cloud, I thought of the clouds that hung 
over some people’s lives, and wondered if any would 
ever come into mine. Before the dawn of another day 
a cloud had appeared which was so black that I could 
not see through it for a long time. As I look back 
now I can see how selfish I was in my sorrow. She 
was homesick ; God only took her home. ’ ’ 

“The picture is yours; take it,” Beatrice said, 
when Naomi had ceased speaking. 

“Naomi, you must take me back to America with 
you. I shall never like Italy again. ’ ’ 

“May I?” asked Naomi, looking at Mrs. Clayton. 

It was arranged that Beatrice should go back with 
them, and as soon as Mr. Clayton could arrange his 


“HE LEADETH ME.^’ 


63 


business affairs he and Mrs. Clayton would follow. 
It was late in September when they reached home. 
Mr. Ford was ready to start for the South so Arthur 
and Naomi took up their abode in the parsonage at 
once. They sent Ormonde Hartwell an urgent invi- 
tation to spend the Christmas holidays with them 
which he accepted. 


64 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


XIV 


“You know my story Ormonde, you know I can- 
not love you, so why do you persist in tormenting 
meV’ 

“I know your story, but I do not know that you 
cannot love me. Forget your foolish vow, Beatrice^ 
be my wife, and let us be happy together.” 

“I cannot forget it yet, but I will make you this 
proposition: Promise me that you will not speak to 
me of love for one year. I have worn this ring to 
remind me of the past. I will give it to you to remind 
you of your promise, and I will try to forget the 
past. Do you agree ? ’ ’ she asked, holding the ring up 
to place it upon his hand. 

“I will abide by your decision; but it is a hard 
sentence,” he replied, as he received the emblem of 
his silence and left her alone. 

“Rid of his foolishness for one whole year; that 
is, if he keeps his promise, ’ ’ she thought, a bitter smile 
playing about her mouth. 

Ormonde returned to Boston the next day. 

Some weeks later Mr. and Mrs. Clayton arrived 
and Beatrice bade farewell to the cottage by the 
church. She and Ormonde often met at social func- 


‘HE LEADETH ME.” 


65 


tions, but no word of love passed his lips, and he never 
trusted himself to call. Thus the first half year went 
by, when, one morning Beatrice was surprised by 
receiving a call from him. 

“I have come to say goodbye for a short while, 
Beatrice, I start abroad tomorrow. Come with me, 
let us spend our honeymoon in fair, sunny Italy ! ” he 
cried, unable to control himself when once he found 
himself alone in her presence. 

“Take me to Italy? Never! I hate it! If you 
have forgotten your promise, Mr. Hartwell, I have not 
forgotten the past,’’ she answered haughtily, raising 
herself to her full height. 

He left her, not daring to trust himself longer in 
her presence. Ormonde Hartwell was madly in love. 
Life so near the object of his love proved unendurable, 
as he was bound to silence regarding his love for her, 
so he decided to spend the remaining six months in 
travel and in the pursuit of his musical studies which 
he had kept up faithfully since Naomi gave him his 
first lessons. 

Three weeks later, as Beatrice was reading the 
morning paper, her eye fell on these words ; 

“Wreckage of the steamer Kelton has been found off the 
coast of Corsica. All on board are believed to have perished as 
no trace of life could be found. The Kelton sailed from Boston 
three weeks ago, and had on board a number of Boston people.” 

“Ormonde Hartwell drowned— and— I love him! 


66 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


Ormonde, my love, come back to me! I do love you 
Ormonde, I know it now. I knew it all the time but 
my stubborn heart would not admit it. And this is. 
my punishment. 0, God 1 how can I bear it I ’ ’ 

Restlessly she paced the floor for fully half an 
hour, then stopped suddenly and exclaimed: “His 
mother! I must go to her.” Hastily donning street 
attire she started, afoot, to the house she knew so- 
well. As she stood waiting for admittance at the door 
which as a child she had opened at will, how she longed 
that she might blot out the intervening years, and be 
that happy child once more. 

No sooner had the door been opened than she 
heard sobs, and, with the words, “I want to see Mrs. 
Hartwell,” she brushed past the servant and up the 
stairway from whence the sobs came. Hearing foot- 
steps, Mrs. Hartwell looked up. 

“You, Beatrice Clayton! Were it not for you my 
boy would be safe at home with me now. He told me 
the whole story. Why have you come to mock me at 
this hour?” 

“I have not come to mock you. I have made a 
great mistake. I do not ask you to forgive me, but let 
me weep with you, for I, too, loved him.” 

She took a step forward and knelt at Mrs. Hart- 
well’s feet. The proud head bent lower and lower 
until it rested in Ormonde’s mother’s lap and their 
tears and sobs mingled together. 


LofC. 


“HE LEADETH ME.” 


67 


XV 


“A boat has been found by some fishermen near Genoa 
which is believed to have belonged to the lost vessel, Kelton. It 
contained the bodies of two dead men and one who is more dead 
than alive. He is being cared for by a fisherman at a little vil- 
lage near Genoa. As he is unconscious no clew to his identity 
can be learned.” 


‘ ‘ It might be Ormonde ; I must go and find out. * ’ 
When Beatrice first mentioned the matter to her 
parents they objected ; but her earnest entreaty caused 
them to see that she suffered more than she appeared 
to, so they at last gave their consent. 

She took her faithful maid as a companion, and 
set out on her strange mission. 

“His mother blames me for his death. If only 
I could restore him to her I would give my life even, ^ ’ 
were her almost parting words to her mother. 

After what seemed to Beatrice an endless voyage, 
they landed at Genoa, and, after making many in- 
quiries at last found the village and house where the 
stranger was being cared for. Beatrice, being well 
acquainted with the Italian tongue, had no trouble in 
making known her mission. She found the man still 
in an unconscious condition, hovering between life 
and death. In vain she looked for some resemblance 


68 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


to her lost lover, but could find nothing to give her 
hope. She looked at his hand but no ring was there. 
He was greatly emaciated and his hair was partly 
gray. 

“Was his hair like it is now, when you found 
him?” she asked of the fisherman. 

“No; it was long. We cut it after we brought 
him here. ’ ’ 

“I mean, was it gray?” 

“Yes; what he went through with is enough to 
turn any man ’s hair gray. ’ ^ 

“Can you describe the other men who were in 
the boat?” 

“One of them was an old man and the other one 
was a mere boy.” 

“ I do not believe this is my friend, but I see you 
are worn out with caring for him, so I will stay and 
help you. Let me know of anything you need for his 
comfort and I will get it. ’ ’ 

“Thank you, ma’am, thank you. It has been a 
little hard on me and Crissie, as we are all alone, but 
the neighbors have been kind.” 

Crissie, the other occupant of the cottage, was 
the fisherman’s twelve-year-old daughter and house- 
keeper. 

“We are stopping at the hotel some distance up 
this street. I will go now, but will come this evening 
to watch with him while you get a good night ’s rest. ’ ’ 


HE LEADETH ME.’ 


69 


When Beatrice returned to the cottage she took 
with her a physician. 

“Its a serious case; but maybe we’ll pull him 
through,” was all the encouragement he gave her. 
The fisherman had had a physician, but he pro- 
nounced it a hopeless case, and, not being assured of 
his pay, had left a supply of medicine and had not 
bothered further about it. 

Days grew into weeks and still he lingered on. 
Beatrice had given up all hope that this man might 
be Ormonde, but she still stayed, hoping he might re- 
gain consciousness and could give her some word from 
Ormonde. 

It was almost midnight. Beatrice was watching 
alone by the sickbed and a howling storm was raging 
without. Blinding flashes of lightning came alter- 
nately with terrific peals of thunder which shook the 
very earth. 

‘ ‘ The ship goes down ! My God ! must I die before 
I tell my darling how dear she is to me?” cried the 
man, raising himself in bed. “0 Beatrice! Beatrice! 
why did you send me from you when I love you so ? ” 

‘ ‘ Ormonde, your Beatrice is here ! ’ ’ she cried, fall- 
ing on her knees at the bedside. But he only stared 
at her and continued his mad wailing. As the storm 
subsided he grew quieter, and toward morning sank 
into a peaceful sleep. 


70 


NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 


XVI 

‘‘May I break my promise now, Beatrice?’^ 

“You need not break your promise, Ormonde. 
Can you lo;ve me still, after all that I have done, and 
will you be my husband ? ^ ^ she asked, a merry twinkle 
in her eyes. 

“Since I am so completely in your power, I sup- 
pose I will not dare refuse,’^ he answered laughing. 
“But as the reminder of my promise is gone, I think 
I am not bound to silence any longer. ’ ’ 

They were married in the little cottage by the 
sea, and spent their honeymoon in Italy. 

“See what I found! Is it yours Crissie asked, 
holding something up before Beatrice. 

Beatrice took it to find that it was the lost ring. 

“It was ours, but it is yours now, Crissie. We 
have no further use for it,” she said, handing it back 
to the child. It was many years afterward that Crissie 
learned the great value of the ring given her that day. 

As soon as Ormonde was strong enough they went 
to Genoa, and from there slowly made their way 
toward London, stopping often that he might rest 
and gain strength. When they reached London he 
was beginning to look like himself once more, except 
that his hair was gray. 


“HE LEADETH ME.” 


71 


One morning as they were out walking in London 
they came near a church out of which a crowd was 
coming. 

“A wedding, I believe. Yes, there is the bride 
and groom and— he is Francis Clarenden! Is it too 
late to save her ? ’ ’ Beatrice cried, running forward. 

Noticing the commotion the groom looked around. 
His eye fell on Beatrice, he staggered, and fell back- 
dead. 

The evening papers came out with the pitiful 
story of “A Bride and a Widow within an hour,’^ and 
when Beatrice read it she said, ‘ ‘ I did not think when 
I asked God to deal justly with him that I would see 
Ilis justice meted out.” 

The voyage was almost over. Boston was in 
sight. Many loving hearts were waiting to welcome 
them home. 

‘Aly son! My son!” exclaimed Mrs. Hartwell, as 
she was clasped to Ormonde’s bosom. 

‘‘And your daughter also, mother,” he said, 
releasing her that Beatrice might receive her share of 
the welcome. 

“My children,” whispered Naomi, as, a few 
weeks later she welcomed them to the little cottage 
by the church. 

Years have passed. It is Junetime. Two forms 
are again standing on the old church steps watching 
the sunset. Silence reigns, each being occupied with 


JAN 12 1904 


72 NAOMI WENTWORTH, OR 

thought too deep for expression. Presently the still- 
ness is broken, and, softly floating on the evening air 
we hear again the words : 

“Sometimes ^mid scenes of deepest gloom. 
Sometimes where Eden’s bowers bloom. 

By waters still, o’er troubled sea — 

Still ’tis His hand that leadeth me. ’ ’ 

“He is leading us by the still waters now, 
Naomi,” said Arthur, turning toward the singer. 

And she, looking with trustful eyes into her hus- 
band ’s face, echoed the words. 

The End. 


N. B. — This book by mail 15 cents. 

Address, 

A. M. Smith, Publisher, 
2098 Sulllvant Ave., 
Columbus, O. 









